


Second Chances Given

by Asorae



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26753791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asorae/pseuds/Asorae
Summary: Nero was used to sudden departures and Dante & Vergil had exited his life as quick as they had entered, with a sword and a spray of bullets.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 50





	Second Chances Given

Nero was used to sudden departures of the people he loved.

They were never quite ‘goodbyes’, but they certainly fell into the category of being left. The word ‘abandoned’ often came to mind but he would quickly cut those thoughts from his mind when they appeared knowing they’d settle deep in the corners of his brain given the chance. There was no goodbye at the orphanage, no farewell when he left The Order, nor was there even a chance to say his final words to Credo, whatever they may have been. The funeral had been short and overly formal, with Kyrie’s graciousness outshining Nero’s poor etiquette to get away as soon as possible. He’d got a chance to stand at his grave a few days later to try and collect his thoughts, to somehow summarise everything he wanted to say. But it wasn’t enough to thank the man who’d influenced him so much over the past twenty plus years. It wasn’t enough to shake that feeling of abandonment.

Dante has sprung into his life as chaotically as he had left it, guns blazing and the rush of a blade flying past his face with blood splattered across their faces. They’d often joked about that first meeting, how Dante had toyed with him whilst Nero pursued him with the fixed goal to spill blood. Like a kitten chasing a tiger, Dante had jibed whilst Nero pouted like a teenager trying his best not to look too stung by the accuracy of his comment. Oh, how he would have loved for Dante to be here now, throwing insults his way with the grace and decorum of a reversing dump truck, only for Nero to counter that he’d easily handed both Dante and Vergil’s ass’ back to them without breaking a sweat as Dante lay comatose. Arrogance and just a little bit of smugness seemed to run deep in the veins of the Sparda bloodline, but it was justified with repartee that only they could handle. The short time he’d spent with his uncle had been an entertaining one to say the least. Even when he’d had no knowledge of their bloodline, Dante was the first person he could pinpoint as family. I have a family, were the words he’d whispered down the phone to Kyrie, a real true blood relative that he could call his own. Nero had an uncle; he was someone's nephew. Not just anyone's nephew, he was Dante’s. He belonged to something bigger than himself, and it was because of the very person who had saved him from himself.

He also had a father.

Nero had never given much thought to his parents, but mostly for lack of intel. Had his mother handed him over in person? Did he have a dad? Why was his hair like that? His questions had been waved away by the nuns with a quiet remark, they had their own questions as to why his scraped knees would be healed rapidly the next morning, in fact. Thankfully, Nero had a disregard for authority from an early age. Acquiring access to the offices in the top floor of the orphanage had been easier said than done but a quick skim through his files told him exactly what he’d expected. Mother: unknown, Father: unknown. Dropped on the doorstep in mid winter with nothing but his own piercing cries to comfort him until the nuns had brought him in from the frost coated doorway. No last name, just a baby in a black blanket, hence his namesake.

But not anymore. With a ‘cruel to be kind’ revelation from Dante, Nero could now fill in that blank space in his life with Vergil. He had a father, a whole person who could disentangle his past and connect the sporadically placed dots in his life. Over twenty years was a long time to have no idea who you are. But it was also a long time to be angry at someone you’d never met, only to have that anger fuelled by the dismissal of his existence by the very man who had conceived it. Although throwing your deadbeat father on the ground like a wet paper towel wasn’t considered therapy, it did make him feel better. The more time he spent with that thought the more he picked up on their similarities and came to the conclusion that genetics were weird, even more so when you veins ran with demonic power.

“Take care Nero, adios.” 

That was the last thing Dante had said to him. Take care. Somehow that meant a significant amount more now he had the knowledge they were blood related. As Dante had leapt into the air and transmogrified into the blood red winged figure, he wondered if Dante felt the same.

“Next time, I won’t lose.” Whilst his father’s departing words had been more stoic there certainly seemed to be a intertwined promise and threat veiled with his parting; the idea of next time seemed unimaginable, but stranger things had happened. 

Moments after Vergil took off after his twin, Nero stood precariously on the edge of the tree, alone, his father's poetry book in grasp, trying to collect his thoughts and make sense of what and who he was. He ran a finger down the book's spine, the gold detailed ‘V’ glinting as it caught the light. After staring at the book for what felt like an eternity, he clambered into Nico’s van, and tried his best to act like he didn’t care.

That evening, after a long and convoluted explanation to Kyrie (after she’d stopped staring in shock at his newly remodelled forearm) he sat on the back porch of their home, recovered with a hot shower, fresh change of clothes and black coffee in hand. Kyrie had warned him it would likely make it difficult for him to sleep but that seemed irrelevant in the current circumstances.

They could have gone together, a team of three, the only surviving kin of the Dark Knight known as Sparda. They would’ve been unstoppable, a true force of strength that had never been reckoned with in their lifetime. But Dante and Vergil had held Nero back for a reason. Had he really been compelled to follow, they couldn’t have stopped him, not really. Nero knew the real reason they were making him stay. Dante’s request to keep things in check in the human world was a facade, and they all knew it. It wasn’t a demand, it was a plea veiled in jest. You have to stay. Please, please don’t follow us. You have a chance. So, Nero had listened. 

As he sipped the steaming mug, the quietness of night leaving him feeling more alone than ever, he knew why Dante and Vergil had made him stay. He had something that neither of them had ever, or may ever, have another chance at. Stretching out his new arm, watching in fascination as the blue veins traced along his wrist, he flexed the tendons and thought about the losses and gainings. 

A rebuttal of fate. A second life, another chance.


End file.
